


In Silence

by Transistance



Series: Incompatible [12]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Books, Established Relationship, F/M, Living Together, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is better for him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Anoter fic that's all thought and no action, why this

The house appears to be empty. No sound breaks through the heavy air of the hallways; no doors stand open; not a breath disturbs the peace. The evening sun tints each room orange, warm and welcoming for its single inhabitant. It is pleasant weather – William can only hope that Grell is enjoying it, wherever she is.

She'd caught him just before the end of the day earlier and informed him that she would be back late, but said nothing more. There had been a moment that had looked as though she was going to, but she'd only hesitated, bit her lip and shaken her head – and they both knew what that meant, so he'd nodded and tried not to allow his indifference to show. She had leaned down to kiss him before she had left, and although the gesture was short it was full of affection.

Is he supposed to feel bitter about it? Does she think he is hurt by her nights – or evenings, in this case – spent in someone else's bed? He catches the guilt in her eyes, sometimes, when she returns home late or passes him in the office the next morning, but is never quite sure how to assure her that she is doing nothing wrong by him. Although it is true that he misses her warmth on the nights she isn't there, it isn't as though he has no acquaintance with solitude.

William is in the library room now, some hours after they've parted ways, having finally decided to take the time to examine its contents after having let them sit and calcify on the shelves for so long. He is trying to read – choosing a book at random has rewarded him with what appears to be a collection of written university lectures on religious influences and thoughts of the fourteenth century – but has so far failed to clear the first page. Whether this is due to the book being boring or his head being too busy he can't tell; he hasn't managed to take in a single word.

The catalyst for his sudden renewal of interest in the books is Grell, of course; over some point in the last week she has apparently taken it upon herself to rearrange the books into order of topic rather than their previous segmentation by author's name (alphabetical), which he hadn't asked her to do but is finding surprisingly helpful. It is suddenly apparent that he owns no books on practical pigeon keeping, for example, but has a shelf and a half's worth dedicated entirely to the subject of growing and maintaining evergreen hedges. There are books written by reapers alongside those from the human world, on scythes and existential issues and the social differences between reapers and their former species. There is a huge section of books on the topic of death, which would be morbid had William and the house's previous owner not shared such a topical occupation.

There's also no small mass of romantic novels and poetry and plays; although William can prove nothing as of yet he's fairly certain that Grell has been adding her own collections of reading material to the library. This is not a bad thing.

Grell is a far better house-mate than she has any right to be, even if she cannot cook to save herself and has an unfortunate tendency to leave her beauty products strewn about in the mornings. She's noisy, but it is a good thing; she hums, she chatters and she sings, whether he wants her to or not. It moves the still air around the house; makes things seem alive.

It's new, but in a pleasant way.

They have developed a routine, easy to adhere to and more natural than anything else that William has experienced first-hand in his orderly existence. Routines are good; they regulate the day, designating certain instances to certain points and keeping everything in time. He hadn't expected Grell to be one for routines – given her work ethos he had thought that she'd be unpredictable, a hassle. But she has proven herself almost as timely as he is.

He rises before her, of course; flits early from the nest to tend to the pigeons. Grell has taken to calling them his 'flock', which they've not been dubbed before – but he supposes she's not wrong. By the time he returns to ready himself for work she is invariably awake; almost always more than half-way through her daily tribulations in which she strives to make herself 'presentable'. He has said before that she would look more professional with no make-up on at all, even when it's subtle and closer to tasteful than not, and although he's disinclined to repeat the thought now it does still linger in the back of his head. But then, she's not aiming for professional, is she? Grell strives to look attractive, and William knows that he must be the last person to cast aspersions upon her for that.

She tends to be in the process of cobbling together some excuse for breakfast when he leaves the house sharp on seven, and knows this well enough to catch him at the door before he manages to cross the porch line. 

The kiss is short, always, because Grell knows better than to hold him up and that if she pushes her luck it will only make him irate. It's never deep, never particularly sensual; in the mornings the touch of their lips is nothing more than an affectionate formality, designed to remind both of them that they are not alone. And then he's gone, and she's late, every day, and when she does eventually slink in and smile he is forced to reprimand her, which wastes time. Grell only bats her eyelashes in response anyway, and more often than not it feels no different from any dead day in the past half century.

Unless they pass one another in the corridors, their days no longer entwine. For all that he enjoys Grell's company, William is acutely glad that she has broken off from her well-aged habit of hassling him whilst they are both busy. The underlying assurance that he is within reach, should she want him, has allowed Grell to stop clutching at his presence with both hands and is liberating for them both.

At the end of the day she comes for him, consistently the last to hand in whatever paperwork she's completed. It only occurred to William recently that she could be doing this to ensure that they are alone and undisturbed by the time that she sees him.

It's the opposite of a problem. Her tendency is to flirt a little, as though she doesn't already have him, drawing closer and closer until the inevitable tipping point past which he must be the one to close whatever gap she leaves, and then they're together for as long as either of them feels prudent. There's no one to see, and no disadvantage to losing himself for a time in her nigh tangible happiness. They pair-jump home, always, with the exception of days like this on which she has an issue to attend to.

Of course, this is only true of the days in which she is in the office. Grell takes as many hours out around reaps as the next shinigami – ie too many – and has not abandoned her tendency to waste time floating around the mortal world for no apparent reason other than to escape doing her work. Sometimes she's away for days, and faint stirrings of annoyance reawaken inside William each time. Sometimes she slinks back to him stinking of that particular demon, and apologies for either 'fooling around' or 'fraternizing with the enemy', both accompanied by an eye-roll and an inclusive grin that somehow manages to suggest that he would have done the same. 

Their time spent together in the house is not always regular; Grell likes to talk as much as she ever has in spite of William's usual lack of things to say, and sometimes one or both of them is scheduled for a night reaping, and sometimes they barely talk due to simple absorption in whatever each is engrossed in, if anything. One of them beds before the other – it's usually Grell, but not always – and when the other joins, they are as close as they can be, given his reservations. Her hands are warm and complicated against his skin, and whether her mouth forms whispers or only presses to his in open affection it is a more than agreeable climax to the day.

Whether she gets comfort, assurance or even just pleasure of one form or another from these simple acts he's not sure, but it is not important.

William wonders more often than is good for him if one can become addicted to another person.

Standing, he places the book face down on the arm of the chair and moves to the closest shelf to skim the titles before him. It's strange, how many he's never noticed before; strange, how much easier it is to make out the details of things when they have been rearranged, shaken so much from familiarity. The spines are worn, but have never been touched by his hands; once or twice he pulls one of the tomes out and flicks through it, enjoying the solid weight of it, the timeless scent of age that drifts out from between its fragile covers. He does not attempt to understand the words, simple English though most are; only takes in the orderly shapes of the lines, the flat black letters that colonize each page's void. Typed or hand scribed, they have always been a comfort – they are fixed points, unchanging, no matter how much everything else turns on its head.

This current detachment has nothing to do with his lingering apathy – it stems from simple, honest confusion, a road block around which William can see no path. 

He can feel himself coming apart, a little; not in a breaking way, nor anything harmful. He is just drifting a bit, with a distraction that he hasn't felt in so long that he can't even remember the last time. From day one he has always bound himself tight into something strong, untouchable, and now there are soft feather edges fraying at his ends.

It is so very strange to feel as though he has a reason to live, and he isn't quite certain what to do about it.

He is grateful for her, for _Grell_ – a thought which almost amuses him. He is grateful for her perseverance, so often dubbed obsessiveness; he is grateful for her enjoyment of things in life that nobody else could find positivity in, too often labelled perversion. But more than anything he is grateful for her inability to feel any touch of the apathy that infects him; that she is able not to mind, sometimes, but unable not to care.

A lump rises unexpectedly in his throat and he sits down again. 

Perhaps he loves her. Perhaps he loves only the company she gives. He is sure of nothing, but that thin instability doesn't appear to be so problematic – her presence no longer bothers him, and she seems loathe to even consider leaving him. They have reached stability, and although their relationship is nothing that William has ever wanted, it is something that he is more than prepared to keep.

The noise of the front door breaks his reverie. Surely she isn't home already? Eight o’clock hasn't even passed.

“Will?” Grell's disembodied voice drifts from the hall, so he calls back without any particular reserve.

“The library.”

He hears her walk her way through the house, and pretends to have engrossed himself in the book when she enters the room. It is early, and early can mean two things, neither of which he particularly wants to see the state of her after.

“Hello!” she says, and her voice is soft, hoarse from one use or another. Still he does not look, but answers in turn. He turns a page and her heels click once, twice, thrice before he hears them hit the floor without her feet and then she's beside him, her hair forming a curtain between him and the words he isn't reading.

William can no longer avoid her, so he brushes her hair out of his face, closes the book and looks at her.

She's radiant.

Her face isn't bruised, which is the first blessing – her evening did not climax in violence. Her hair, curled and twisted and extravagant beyond description, has half fallen but her makeup has not been smeared and the vivacity in her smile betrays nothing but her happiness in returning home. She displays all of her teeth, and after a moment he enquires as to how her date was, against his better judgement.

Grell's smile slips a little, and then unexpectedly blossoms again. “How dreadfully rude, Will – don't you know a lady doesn't kiss and tell? Really, on any other night I'd take offence. As it is -” she breaks off, shrugs, and raises her eyebrows for effect. “I wasn't really feeling it. He made one remark too many that I didn't like, and I left. Figured it'd be much preferable to spend this time with you.”

William nods, knowing that he should display some emotion toward this change – but he has little to say. Although he is pleased that she is here, he does not want to suggest that he is displeased when she isn't; so he settles for a simple, “I'm sorry that it went downhill.”

She laughs, the noise short and careless, and changes the topic by taking up the book and glancing over the title. Grell raises her eyebrows at him again before giving comment. “Theology? I didn't think that was your area.”

“It isn't. I just... needed something to read.”

“I see.” Replacing the book on his other side, she slides carefully onto his lap, all angles without discomfort. She smells like the moment between flowers and fruit, a heady metamorphosis that bespeaks the practicality behind her beauty and reminds him that there will always be more to her than any one point in her life can possibly show.

“It was a bad night, all in all,” she murmurs, rather pensively. Then she narrows her eyes at him, faux-coy, and asks, “Make it better?”

There is only a limited amount that he can do, but what he can do he does to his best – and she closes her eyes as he kisses her, releasing a single whisper of happiness into his mouth. And subsequently, her sighs – tiny, contented things – reassure William that even if he isn't doing perfectly, he is satisfactory.

He feels every bleeding smile that escapes the space between her excited lips and his cradling touch and, loathe though he is to admit it, he is fully aware that he is smiling too.


End file.
